Bellatrix is in the first floor kitchen, looking at the disaster she made. Broken glass and ceramic cover the floor as a second fitted carpet.
The morning Sun light enters the room through the glassless window and hits the crystal chips, projecting shiny drawings on the walls.
"As soon as I'll find that bitch I'll make her clean this mess with naked hands." whispers the woman. "Always if she isn't already dead... I wouldn't be surprised if she was. Now she must be starving, at least."
She bends down and picks up her dagger.
She's imagining to press it against Hermione's throat when she hears a knock coming from the front door.
She teleports in the hall, close to the in entrance, and opens the door, holding her dagger tight.
Her expression changes as she stares at the person in front of her: Hermione.
Her anger is replaced by surprise at first, then by something which is a mix of of compassion and complacency.
The girl's sweater is sleeveless, as if the sleeves had been teared away from it. The naked arms show many, many scratches and cuts.
Bellatrix is sure she isn't the one who did them.
Hermione's feet are only wearing socks, the pair Bellatrix had given her, with a thick stratus of mud.
Her face is pale, almost greenish, like all her body except for her eye bags which are tending to purple, and for the wounds.
She's trembling and Bellatrix thinks she's about to fall.
"Look who's back!" exclaims the woman.
Tears wet the girl's cheeks. "I... I was c-cold..." she mutters.
"Do you think my home is an hotel?" asks the older witch.
"S-sorry... I... I..." she seems to lose control of ther voice, which now is shaking at least as her body.
Bellatrix smirks. "Come in, bitch."
Hermione walks in avoiding to look at the woman.
The older witch's smile grows wider as she feels the girl's submission.
The closes the door and turns to the girl: "We have to talk."